The North Star

by Wendy Cole

  Copyright © 2019 by Wendy Cole

  All rights reserved. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in, or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known, hereinafter invented, without express written permission of the publisher. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the address below.

  Typewriter Pub, an imprint of Blvnp Incorporated

  A Nevada Corporation

  1887 Whitney Mesa DR #2002

  Henderson, NV 89014

  www.typewriterpub.com/info@typewriterpub.com

  ISBN: 978-1-64434-089-9

  DISCLAIMER

  This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. While references might be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  THE NORTH STAR

  WENDY COLE

  Table of Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

  CHAPTER SIXTY

  CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

  CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

  CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE

  CHAPTER SEVENTY

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE

  Dedicated to Debra Mansell, who birthed me yet still somehow loves this story more.

  I love you.

  To tall pines and winding rivers,

  To cold nights and empty bellies,

  I acknowledge Karma for her wisdom,and Mother Nature for her ability to heal.

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  CHAPTER ONE

  There was a cop inside the gas station, and I was pumping petrol into a van full of cocaine.

  My heart pounded inside my ears, and each breath I fought to drag in seemed to lack any substance.

  Drake was going to kill me. If I went to jail, he’d have people waiting for me.

  I sucked in a breath and blew it out slow.

  Just pretend.

  I wasn’t on probation.

  I wasn’t committing a felony.

  I wasn’t staring at this fucking pump like I wanted to kick it for being slow.

  Being a woman didn’t help if the asshole couldn’t see me, but I was too damn rattled to step into view. My limbs were frozen; my joints locked.

  I peeked through the back windows of the van and found him standing at the counter, chatting up the cashier. He had a coffee in one hand, and the other on his belt. His chest was puffed out, and his chin was tilted up. That wasn’t good. The backwoods cops who stood like that always wanted to investigate. They weren’t the lazy fucks that sat in their cars and waited for a call.

  If I took off before pumping it all, would it draw attention?

  I weighed my options and did my best to predict every possible outcome. If I did, he probably wouldn’t notice. But given that it was me, karma would most likely make it the one damn time it was noticeable. If I stood still and out of view, perhaps he’d just go about his way. Didn’t that always work? Hiding in plain sight?

  He turned away with a wave to the clerk, and I jerked my gaze back towards the pump. Five slow-ass fucking dollars away from the thirty I’d paid for. If the piece-of-shit van didn’t drink so much gas, I would have been on the highway. I would have been blending in with hundreds of other cars, vans, and trucks. I peeked again, and he was by his car.

  Karma hated me. She hated me with an absolute passion because that asshole took one look at the rusted, white–I’ve got a puppy–van, and I could tell.

  He was going to run the plates.

  Sure enough, he sat down in his cruiser but didn’t close the door. His gaze shot over towards me, then back to his computer, then back to my tag again.

  Fuck. I couldn’t catch a break.

  Don’t fuck this up, Jessie. That was what Drake had said just before I left with this godforsaken load. Don’t fuck this up.

  There was a lot of money tied up in those crates. Money for the club. For the family.

  My back burned just thinking about the beating I’d get if I got busted and lost it all, not to mention my ass was going to lockup for a considerably long damn time.

  A car door slammed shut, and I looked back. He had his hands on his belt and an important swagger to his step.

  Shit.

  Survival instincts kicked in. Adrenaline rushed forward to push back the panic attack that was so ready to turn me into a gasping mess.

  Showtime, Jessie. I forced a smile as he caught sight of me. The smile: dimples, mouth slightly open, swimsuit catalogue, I’m a Barbie girl, let’s sing a fucking pop song.

  “Hello, Officer.”

  “This your van?”

  No pleasantries. Not good.

  “No, sir. It’s my uncle’s. He’s letting me use it.”

  He peeked into the back window as if he expected to see a dozen dead bodies.

  Nope. Just drugs. I ground my teeth and forced a calm expression.

  “Colorado, huh? What brings you all the way out here?”

  I knew the script. “Visiting. My aunt is real sick. That’s why my uncle let me use the van. I’m driving up to get her and bring her back to him.”

  I smiled again; bigger this time. At only twenty-two, with blonde hair, a decent face, and sleeves long enough t
o cover the multitudes of ink across my skin, I could pass for a college student. It was the reason Drake made me do these. I was a whole lot less conspicuous than a bearded biker with a gold tooth and a face tat.

  Apparently not. The officer didn’t look impressed or convinced or even slightly interested in what I was selling.

  He motioned to the back. “Whatcha’ haulin’?”

  Just enough cocaine to buy Pablo Escobar’s children a dozen ponies. “My uncle sells produce. They’re all empty right now. They were full of tomatoes.”

  He stared at my face the whole time I spoke, then glanced back through the window. “Can I see your license and registration?”

  Fuck. He was going to ask to see what was in the back. That shit was hidden about as well as an elephant in a fucking tree.

  “Sure thing.” I turned back to the pump, and of course, it had finished. With the nozzle hanging in the gas tank, the dangled hose formed a barrier between him and the driver’s side door, so I left it.

  My chest tightened. Sweat beaded my neck, rolled down my back, burning the open wounds, reminding me of what Drake had done the last time I stepped out of line, and I knew I had to make a choice. If he looked in the back, I was fucked. If he wasn’t going to…

  “Go ahead and pop the back for me, too.”

  My breath caught and held as if I’d been submerged in water; dunked deep into a river of shit. I couldn’t go to jail. I couldn’t lose the cargo. The image of Drake and everything he’d do to me dominated my focus. I stared unseeing at the center console with one hand on the door, the other on the frame. The grip was tight enough to turn my knuckles white. The law was nothing in comparison. Jail was nothing in comparison. The only option was the one that put me out of Drake’s line of fire.

  Shit.

  I jerked myself into the driver’s seat, revved the engine to life, and punched the gas. The hose ripped off, the door swung shut, and tires already worn too thin squealed their protest as I floored it into drive. A glance over my shoulder revealed the officer barely making it out of the way. He tumbled backwards over his own feet, then scrambled to get back up.

  “Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.” I raced onto the main road, tilting and toppling in a fight for the highway. It wasn’t far. If I could hit the exit and make it into a cluster before they got a good tail on me, I might be okay. I could do it. I could.

  The turn off loomed into view. I pressed the pedal to the floor and skidded around the incline, each shiny green sign pointing me towards the interstate like a checkpoint.

  Just a little further. I could see it. Just a little…

  Blue lights flickered in my rearview.

  “Fuck!” I zoomed into traffic, barely looking at the other vehicles. One car smacked into another, a semi blew its horn, and I just managed to make it into the next lane before it plowed me over.

  My heart beat its way into my throat as my hands shook against the steering wheel. I swerved in between lanes and darted in between cars. The speedometer read eighty-five, as high as it would go, and the dash shook with an intensity that made my teeth rattle.

  I was driving a fucking coffin.

  Behind me, a distant flash of blue and a stream of headlights pulling off onto the shoulder.

  “Oh, sure! You move out of the way for him!” I swerved around a small pickup and came entirely too close to its bumper.

  With his advantage, the cop didn’t have any problems gaining on me. In less than five minutes, he was on my ass. Then, as if that wasn’t bad enough, he multiplied. More blue lights flew down the next on-ramp and fell into the lanes beside me. One swerved into my path and tapped its brakes.

  With nowhere to go, I looked over to the grassy median.

  Might as fucking well.

  I skidded into it, and my teeth clamped hard around my tongue as the van hopped over the bumpy terrain. Crates toppled over, crashed, and exploded in the back until white puffed into the air like smoke.

  My half thought-out plan had been to do a U-turn and pick back up on the opposing side, but one overzealous cop seeking a fucking medal flew after me and blocked the way.

  I swerved again and hit the shoulder in the wrong direction. Headlights flashed. Horns blew. Every car, SUV, and long-road trucker fought to get away from me, and I couldn’t say I was opposed to the idea.

  Deputy Eager Beaver kept a steady pace behind, and it didn’t take long for the rest to join in for a piece of the thunder.

  An opening appeared.

  I jumped at the opportunity to get some distance and cut across the lanes into oncoming traffic. Maybe they were too intelligent to follow.

  I didn’t make it.

  Another foot and I’d have hit the shoulder. It was mere inches. But karma hated me. She fucking hated me, and of course, she’d have that last car have the slowest reaction time. Of course, she’d have it nick my back fender, knock me sideways, and send my van rolling across the ditch.

  Of course, she would.

  The world fell into slow motion, just like they said it did in the movies. I noticed the most peculiar things for a girl on the verge of dying. The little green pine tree hanging from the mirror and the way it seemed to defy gravity as it drifted towards the ceiling, the clouds of white, and the shattering glass. My hands lost contact with the wheel. They hung suspended in front of me.

  Then, everything sped up. The van hit the earth with an almighty crash, and every bone in my body seemed to crunch together on impact. More glass and crates exploded. Something sharp pierced my neck, then slashed my shoulder.

  When it finally drew to a stop, the seat belt held me upside down. I groaned and coughed and fought to release myself.

  The moment I clicked the button, I dropped on my head and formed a U-shape against the busted windshield.

  It was over.

  A fate far worse than death awaited me if I went to jail. I didn’t care if they killed me. The chase hadn’t. The crash hadn’t. Karma wasn’t that nice. Panic set in; another attack. It stole my breath and wouldn’t allow me to replenish it.

  I pulled myself up to grip the driver’s seat and struggled to get through the shattered window on the passenger’s side.

  Blue lights and sirens zoomed into place all around me. I heaved myself through the opening, dropped to the ground, and crawled on my stomach with no real hope of escape. I couldn’t do it. I didn’t want to. I wished with every ounce of life in my body that they would end me once and for all.

  “Hands on your head! Hands on your head!”

  I wheezed a laugh. What did he think I was going to do?

  “Pretty sure I’m dying! You big, strong men are all very safe!”

  The world erupted, and a burst of heat hit my back. It shook the ground, and the boom that hit the air sent a ringing through my ears. I looked back to find the piece-of-shit van―a flaming piece of shit van.

  Deputies ran over with guns drawn and pointed.

  “Put your hands on your head!” The same cop from the gas station took the lead. He pulled the cuffs from his belt.

  I looked up at him and smiled. “Feel free to check those crates now, Officer.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  One-thousand, four-hundred and sixty-one days.

  Two-hundred and nine weeks.

  Forty-eight months.

  Four years.

  That was a lot of time to think.

  About my life; where I’d been and what I’d become.

  The more time I spent behind bars, the more I realized what a fucking statistic I was. Drake, the club, the family that had once been my lifeline―they all had me backed into a corner for years. And I just stood there, hands up in surrender, tiptoeing around in an attempt to make each day as good as it could be.

  Prison was no different from home. Women had been waiting just like I’d known they would be. No sooner did the guards show me my cell, a group appeared to give me a taste of what was to come upon my release.

  Three cracked ribs, two black eyes, on
e blessed day in the infirmary, and me, balled into a U-shape with her hands up.

  No fight. Just a statistic. An abused animal too trained to bite the ones who beat her.

  Drake visited every month, each time to fuck with my head; to remind me. The lust in his eyes had nothing to do with sex. He’d do worse than the women had.

  He couldn’t wait to do worse.

  Nowhere was safe, and I was tired. I was so unbelievably tired. Karma owed me something. She owed me at least some semblance of a life before I inevitably rotted in the ground.

  But she wouldn’t hand it to me. It wouldn’t fall into my lap. I’d have to pry it from her cold, bitchy fingers.

  I made a decision; one that would most likely end in my death, but I didn’t care. It didn’t matter. I’d rather die fighting my way out of the corner than spend my days cowering inside it, bowing my head. I was stronger than that, and Drake could fuck off.

  I lied about my release date, dyed my hair black, and added a new tat to my temple. It was as good a disguise as I could manage, but the result wouldn’t help with my goals to have a normal life. It took away my only tool. My harmless college girl persona flew out the window, replaced by someone worth a wallet check.

  Regardless, I ran.

  I ran as far as the terms of my probation would allow, which wasn’t very fucking far at all. Colorado was a deadly mistress in the winter, and as I trudged along the wet road, legs aching after ten hours of job search, head down and hair a curtain around my features, the October chill crept through my hoodie like an omen.

  The law wasn’t helping, not without a testimony. The shelters weren’t an option. I had no family. I couldn’t hightail it down to Florida without risking being locked back up, and I was one person hiding from a club with thousands of members.

  Any one of them would snatch me up and hand me over to Drake in a second. For what? A pat on the back? A little golden star?

  I didn’t have a chance.

  I had a fucking bridge―a bridge, a hoodie, and ten dollars’ worth of panhandled change.

  I pushed forward as the familiar lights entered my distant peripheral. Bars lit the path down Main Street; heated, open and ready to service anyone with a buck to spend. They called to me like long lost friends, and the meager amount of money I had sat heavier inside my jean pocket. But walking into a bar would be like a mouse going for the trap―a death wish―and while the cheese had never been more tempting, the threat was far too great.